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by Salty_but_Sweet



Category: Sex and the City (TV)
Genre: Author just has issues, Carrie mulling over Big, Drabble, Emotional Hurt, F/M, I Ship It, Set somewhere after it's all said and done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 22:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30112959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salty_but_Sweet/pseuds/Salty_but_Sweet
Summary: At some point you may found out that you're done. Done with waiting, done with interpretating. Just done.
Relationships: Carrie Bradshaw & John "Mr. Big" Preston





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**Author's Note:**

> I forgot, I had written this. It's nice to find almost finished, unposted fics from your computer.

‘I'm sorry’

For the first time in ages, she had nothing to say or write.

The two words only indicated how nothing had changed. How Big was still completely unable to give her anything out of himself. The words were impersonal, devoid of character and connotations. She had speculated many times why this was so hard? It couldn't be just Big, because she had never seen a man so out of touch with his emotions, so unable to talk about them. Not to mention, that Big could talk to anyone else, be fluent in meetings, and making contacts, with wives and exes but not with her. She had pondered whether it was his upbringing, or was it her? Sometimes she could almost see a change but then she was back crying her eyes out and ordering junk-food at home because she couldn't bear to walk out in the city. She could write a novel out of him, an epic saga, she had damn nearly made her living out of all the Big-related columns and spoken thousands of hours about their relationship but the man in question couldn't say even three words.

Yes, they could be polar-opposites when it came to money and talking but the differences weren't there as stable measures; they accumulated onto each other. Time after time, every unspoken word added to the wall of uncertainties between and she didn't know if she could ever climb past it. She was getting older, her stamina wasn’t what it used to be anymore. And staring at the two words and the blank message-box, she wasn't sure if she wanted to. She had thought about it many times before. Somehow she had climbed back up from the depths of her heartbreak every time but she was done with this. _Wanted_ to be done with this. The point she had many times feared she wouldn’t reach — feared that she would reach, and kept herself far away from it — might be brought upon her now. And she was shaking its hand, hugging it, and, in her mind, dancing around the room like after a new pair of fabulous new shoes.

I'm sorry. For what? For whom? When? She thought crunching up her forehead and mouthing the words with a frustrated laugh. Was Big sorry for leaving her, for humiliating her, was it a goodbye or a request to get around the same table? The words gave her nothing. And it wasn't just that she couldn't translate them, there was so little in them. And she knew that at some point a love-story needs words, sentences, to be an actual story, and not just a slice-of-a-life image.

The part of her that she hated now, the part that had gotten her into this mess in the first place was arguing from somewhere deep down that Big was apologizing for letting her down, for falling into his old habits. But how could she be sure? The side of her that claimed to know and usually boasted the opinion inside her mind had retreated from her awareness in shame and shambles more times than she wanted to count.

And she was sorry too. For herself. For her friends for having to listen to the same old thing over and over again like a broken record she had been in more ways than one. She was sorry for Big’s issues; whatever they were. She was sorry for the character and seven letters that had been pushed to this useless existence.

The fireworks of emotions that were all wrong and because of that finally all right were paving way for detachment she had never thought she could feel towards Big. She didn’t want to care. She didn’t have to care.

She wasn’t his nurse, or mother, or personal assistant. She wasn’t legally obligated to take care of him.

Like the order of a takeout that had never been registered in the small place down the street and lost along the way, she didn’t exist either.

Staring at the words for the last time, she began to realize that those words were in truth for Big by himself — she was just a missing package of food that could be replaced by just about anything.

And you don’t respond to that.

Because there is nothing to respond to.


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